


skylight

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"look, i don't make the orders," he says, holding up a hand. "i just follow 'em, and the orders i got are to make sure you don't croak before you're supposed to." he lowers his hand and shrugs, like it's as simple as that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	skylight

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't anything anybody has been asking me for, but i wanted to post something since i haven't in a while. i feel kind of eh about this, but i hope y'all enjoy it anyway. orz

Ian wakes up to the smell of smoke.

At first, he thinks it might be his older brother, slipping into the room late at night like he does sometimes when his mind is restless and he doesn't want to be alone - with a book in his lap and a nicotine craving that isn't satisfied until the ash tray is full - but when he opens his eyes the room is dark and Lip isn't slouched down at the end of his bed, half on Ian's legs and half off. And that smoky smell, it's sharper than usual, laced with something unidentifiable. Ian blinks up at the ceiling, at the spiderweb of cracks above his bed. When he turns his head, the red glow of his alarm clock tells him it's almost three.

Soft muttering that Ian's heard countless times before comes from the bunk bed across from his, a Carl shaped lump under a thin blanket, conversing with someone in his sleep. Never fully formed sentences, but Ian sometimes catches bits and pieces. Stuff like _hey baby_ and _you want some of this?_ He's learned to tune it out over the years. The house groaning, the old structure settling, that's something he's used to too. Common noises, but right now they all sound eerily magnified. 

Ian sniffs the air again, and that's when he hears a noise he doesn't recognize at all. A dull _thump, thump, thump, thump_ coming from the direction of the window. Ian freezes, heart springing into his throat. The window definitely wasn't unlatched when he went to bed. It's almost fall, and the weather is getting cool, so nobody needs to crack it open anymore. A shadowy silhouette is obstructing the view outside, a sliver of the moon at the top right corner the only thing visible from Ian's vantage point.

Careful, so he doesn't bring attention to himself, Ian moves the arm he's got draped over the edge of his bed to reach for the knife duct taped to the underside of his mattress. He slowly pries it loose, heart pounding, every wiggle like a gunshot in his ears. Ian has his fingers wrapped around the hilt, just starting to pull it towards his chest, when a dry male voice says, "Nice try, freckles, but that ain't gonna do jack shit against _me_."

_He sounds young,_ is the first thing Ian thinks. _I could take him_ , is his second thought. He narrows his eyes and rolls off his bed into a crouch. He stands, straightening up to his full height. "We'll see about that." His words don't waver, and despite a slight rasp from sleep, his tone is even. He locks eyes with the intruder. "If you came here to rob us you're going to be disappointed."

Ian watches as a pair of dark, expressive eyebrows jump. "I know. It look like I'm here to fuckin' rob you? There ain't anything worth swiping in this shithole." The guy scratches his nose, then wipes his hand off on his thigh. His jeans look dirty; grass stained, ratty holes at the knees and held together by a worn leather belt. He's sitting on the windowsill, legs spread, heels thumping gently against the wall, revealing the source of the noise. _Thump, thump, thump, thump._ He's got a lit cigarette between his fingers, the orange ember flickering when he takes a puff, briefly illuminating his pale face and pursed, heart-shaped lips. 

Ian frowns, ignoring the second statement and concentrating on the first. "What do you want, then? Who are you?" He doesn't know why those are the questions he goes to, and not _If you don't get the fuck out right now I'm going to stab you in the fucking gut_ , but something made him pause and change course. Something isn't right. Something is _off_ , apart from the obvious.

The guy takes another drag off his cigarette. Smoke curls lazily from his nostrils when he exhales, the motion reminding Ian of a sleeping dragon, of the calm before a storm. "Name's Mickey."

Ian waits, but nothing more comes. "...Okay, Mickey, you mind telling me _what_ you're doing in my bedroom?" Ian thinks he's being pretty patient, all things considered.

Mickey sighs, long suffering, like he's been through this situation before. He flicks the butt of his cigarette out the window and hops off the sill. Ian tenses but he doesn't approach, just stays put and crosses his arms. He's smaller than Ian in stature, but his upper body is thick, biceps prominent and tight pecs clearly outlined through a thin beige tank top. "I was sent here to protect you," he says. 

Ian's tight grip on the knife falters. That's definitely not what he was expecting. He blinks owlishly. "What? Why? By _who?_ "

"My fuckin' boss, that's who." Ian almost rolls his own eyes at the total unhelpfulness of the answer. He opens his mouth to ask him to _elaborate, maybe_ but Mickey continues before he gets the chance. "Look, I don't make the orders," he says, holding up a hand. "I just follow 'em, and the orders I got are to make sure you don't croak before you're supposed to." He lowers his hand and shrugs, like it's as simple as that. 

And then he blinks. In that fraction of a second between eyelids closing and opening, something incredibly bizarre happens. Mickey's eyes _brighten._ Charged, somehow, like somebody just plugged his body into an electrical outlet and lit him up from the inside. 

Ian gapes. "How--"

"Guardian angel," Mickey says, cutting him off. "That's me. I'm yours. Congratu-fucking-lations."

Guardian angel. That's new. That's fucking ridiculous. So why then is Ian stuck on two other words? _I'm yours._ There are already goosebumps on his arms, but that sends a frisson up his spine.

The sudden urge to giggle hysterically bubbles up in Ian's throat. Thankfully the sound gets caught halfway and doesn't make it out. 

Mickey continues to appear unaffected, and more than a little impatient. _Thump, thump, thump, thump._ His legs still. The sound stops. A breeze ruffles Mickey's hair. Ian feels it touch him. Mickey gaze bores into Ian. It's the bluest blue Ian's ever seen. He doesn't get much time to gawk, though. There's a rustling noise, and suddenly Mickey disappears. Ian yelps. His brothers stir in their beds, but Ian isn't paying them any attention. He stares wide-eyed at the empty space in front of the window, gaping again. For a moment he wonders if Mickey somehow tripped and fell right out, despite the logical part of his brain that tells him that's not possible, he's been watching the guy the whole time. Ian moves quickly to go check anyway. He sticks his head out the window and looks down, heart pounding, but there's no body lying mangled on the grass anywhere near the house. It's a relief, but it makes Ian question his already fraying sanity.

Maybe this is a dream. He is definitely dreaming. That would explain everything. Ian relaxes slightly.

"Yo, you done freaking out yet?"

Ian jumps in surprise and cracks his head on the top of the window. The pain is _very_ realistic. He curses colorfully and turns around, rubbing the sore spot, and there Mickey is, leaning back against the door as casual as ever. He still looks impatient, but Ian catches the hint of mischief in the corners of his mouth. 

A few seconds later, Mickey's eyes flare again, and the back of Ian's head feels cool. When the sensation goes away, Ian brings his hand up to probe gingerly at the spot, but the pain is gone. He drops his hand, amazed. "Jesus," Ian breathes, strangled. His mind is going a mile a minute. "So you're really--" An angel. _Fuck_. "Does that mean heaven...?" He can't even finish the question.

"'M not allowed to answer stuff like that, man," Mickey says, but the look he gives Ian says _duh, shithead, of course_ and Ian swallows an undignified squeak.

"How come I can't see your wings?" he blurts out. His hand flails at his side. "If that's what--that's how you just--I mean, you don't really _look_ like an angel. What I know of angels, anyways," he adds hastily. "Big, fluffy white wings, robes, halos..."

Ian knows he's said the wrong thing when Mickey's face goes stormy, all traces of amusement vanishing. He doesn't hunch his shoulders, but they twitch and Ian gets the distinct impression that that's what he wants to do. "Why don't you pull down your pants and show me your cock, and I'll show you my wings and halo," he says flatly.

Warmth floods to Ian's face in a rush. "Excuse me?"

Mickey snorts. "Yeah, didn't think so."

Ian shakes his head. "I'm...um, I'm sorry," he says awkwardly. "I didn't know angels had... private parts?" 

So, Ian managed to offend an angel. He's going to hell for sure. Ian pales at the thought. Nope, _not_ going to think about hell being real right now. Not going to think about demons and fire and--no. Besides, there are more important things to think about. Like the fact that Mickey has wings. He has a _halo_. Concealed, somehow. Ian can't stop the way his gaze roams over the space surrounding Mickey, trying to find a trace of those hidden appendages. All he sees right now is a teenager with a scowl and dirty clothes.

"No shit," Mickey snaps. "And why should I wear a fuckin' robe, huh? I can wear whatever the fuck I want." Ian doesn't argue with him, not wanting to ruffle any more feathers (ha). The house makes another groaning noise, which seems to distract Mickey from his verbal beat down. He glances up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowing, and then back to Ian. He beckons him over with a jerk of his chin. "C'mere for a sec, gingerbread."

Ian stares at him. When he doesn't move, Mickey sighs. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Kinda defeats the whole purpose of my being here."

He doesn't seem offended when Ian doesn't put the knife down, just watches him as he crosses the room. "Bit closer," he says, when Ian stops a few feet away from him. Ian takes two more steps. He can hear Mickey breathing in and out, which is a little comforting. How inhuman can he be if he breathes?

They're staring at each other, Ian in wonder and Mickey unreadable, when the house groans so loudly that Ian and Mickey both startle. There are cracking noises, like something splitting apart, and then the ceiling above Ian's bed suddenly collapses in on itself.

"Holy fucking shit!" Ian yells, thoughts of grumpy angels with stunning eyes temporarily obliterated as he raises his arms instinctively to protect himself from the flying debris. He lowers his arms only when he remembers he's not the only one in the room, but miraculously, Carl and Liam are both okay when Ian rushes to check. The only part of the roof that collapsed is right over Ian's bed, the rest of the room speckled with rubble. Carl coughs through the dust.

Lip stumbles into the room, mop of curls wild, eyes bugging out of his head as he takes in the scene. Ian scoops up Liam and moves to the doorway to join him. They all stare at the mess, and then up to the giant hole in the roof. 

A minute passes by in stunned silence, until Lip suddenly clears his throat. "You, uh, been wanting a skylight, Ian?" he asks, inappropriately jovial. He nudges Ian's side, and Ian let's out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Fuckin' _awesome_ ," Carl agrees. He goes to step forward and Ian yanks him back by the collar of his t-shirt automatically.

Ian turns to look behind him. He's not sure a _thank you_ is appropriate, but considering he'd be squashed like a bug if Mickey hadn't gotten him out of bed, some kind of gratitude is probably in order. But he's isn't there. Swallowing down odd disappointment, Ian wonders if maybe Mickey had just been a figment of his imagination. He clearly needs to get some more rest.

Something flutters to the ground by Ian's feet just as he's about to head downstairs to call Fiona and tell her the bad news. Ian frowns and sets Liam down. He picks it up, eyes widening. It's a feather. It's long, and dark brown in color - almost black - with a muted sheen. Ian runs his fingers over it, straightening out the unruly barbs. At the base of the feather it's lighter, a bit fluffier, and dangerously soft. Maybe it's creepy, but Ian gives in to his strong urge and brushes it against his cheek. The sensation is like a caress of low, humming electricity. Ian inhales, closing his eyes.

It smells like smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> and the award for worst opening and closing lines goes to... :')


End file.
